


Overriding Your Bad Decision

by CoffeeAndDreams



Category: James Bond (Craig movies), James Bond (Movies)
Genre: Dysfunctional Friends, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Exhaustion, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, One Shot Collection, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Pre-Slash, Sick Character, Sickfic
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-01-12
Updated: 2020-05-05
Packaged: 2021-02-27 13:01:32
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 12
Words: 15,366
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22227571
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/CoffeeAndDreams/pseuds/CoffeeAndDreams
Summary: An ongoing collection of one shots focused on Q and Bond stepping in to override the other ones bad decision. Will add tags as I go, but heavy on sick fics, exhausted characters, hurt/comfort, etc.
Comments: 26
Kudos: 89





	1. Bond is Benched Because of a Virus

When he heard the door slam Q knew exactly who it was and what was about to happen. 007 looked like an angry lion stalking towards its prey. Well, a lion with a bad cold and a perfectly cut suit. Q took a deep breath and steeled himself for the inevitable.

“You have no right to pull me from field duty,” Bond snarled. His voice was strained, but anger still bled through every word. Yet, despite how he placed both hands on Q’s desk and attempted to cower over the younger man, Q remained impassive and continued tapping on his keyboard.

“I’m the MI6 Quartermaster. I have every right to pull you from field duty if I deem it prudent to do so,” Q said without looking up from his computer.

“I’ve been prepping for that mission to Pakistan for nearly three weeks!”

“Yes, and in that time you managed to contract a nasty virus that takes an already dangerous mission and doubles the likelihood that you’ll get yourself injured or worse.”

As Bond continued to rant against the injustice of being benched by a man nearly young enough to be his son, Q pulled an extra chair over and put it next to his desk. Then he sat back in his own chair and crossed his arms across his chest and did his best not to smirk. 007’s theatrics exceeded even Q’s expectations, but the moment Bond significantly raised his voice, he started to cough…and couldn't quite stop. He blocked his mouth with a fist and rested the other where his neck met his chest. The grating sound made Q wince and watching the older man battle to get control took some of the fun out of being right. Some of the fun, but not all of it.

“Sit down before you pass out,” Q said. Bond slumped into the chair that Q had brought over a moment ago.He sniffled and ran a hand over his face. He really was exhausted. The tantrum might have been good for his ego, but it was hell on his headache. At some point during the day Bond had discarded his tie; his shirt left unbuttoned at the top. To most observers it would have meant nothing, but Q knew it was the equivalent of his agent showing up to work in his pajamas. “You know I couldn’t let you out into the field like this,” Q said.

“Shut up,” he said, but there was no more fire behind his words.

“If I hadn’t done it, M would have the moment he laid eyes on you.” Bond didn’t have a response for that. Of course Q was right. Going out in the field as sick as he was not only risked his life but the mission as well. He wasn’t really angry _at_ Q; he was angry at the inconvenient timing and Q made for an easy outlet.

“How did you know?” he asked, his voice much worse from the bout of coughing.

“When you were in yesterday for the quarterly weapons recert you sneezed several times. Then, when I went to fit your new ear piece your skin was burning. It didn’t take a genius to put two and two together.”

“You didn’t say anything.”

“To be honest, I was a little interested to see how long you were going to try and play off the sneezing as dust since one: I know you’re not allergic to dust and two: my devotion to cleanliness in the lab borders on obsessive compulsive.”

“Borders on?”

“Shut up. I had quite a lot of work to do that day and didn’t want to devote half my afternoon to arguing with you.”

“So today’s a slow day then?”

“I don’t have slow days, Bond. But yes, I knew you’d come in here foaming at the mouth approximately five minutes after getting the notification, so I hid anything I didn’t want smashed into a million pieces and waited for you to visit.” Q saw the older man’s face relax a little, some of the frustration leaving his shoulders. In fact, Q thought he looked tired but he was smart enough not to mention it—no need to kick a man when he’s down. “I need a cup of tea. I’ll bring you one,” Q said. He was a little surprised that Bond just nodded. Q had been prepared for the tantrum, but he expected 007 to storm off after he’d said his piece. While making tea for assassins wasn’t technically part of his job description, every day at MI6 was a new adventure.

Q listened as his agent sneezed twice. He really didn’t like the sound of the cough that followed; there was a tight airiness to it that made Q suspect he’d hear the other man wheeze if he got close enough. He bit back his impulse to order 007 to medical (for the moment) and put a mug of tea down in front of him instead. Bond nodded and took a sip. Q knew he must still have something on his mind—James Bond didn’t just pop in for tea and company.

“Who’s going instead?” Bond asked.

“Parker.”

“Are you running point?”

“No, R is.”

“I want you to do it.”

“R and Parker always work together,” Q said.

“It’s going to be tricky. Lots of blind spots, dead-end streets. The building alone has a subterranean—”

“Bond, they’ve got it under control.” The way the muscles twitched in Bond’s jaw told Q he was anything but sure that the other team had it under control. The Quartermaster felt torn between defending his team (in whom he had total confidence) and giving in to his agent (whose gut instinct was annoyingly good). The tie breaker ultimately came when 007 sneezed again. If he was sitting here arguing with Q, instead of being in bed where he obviously belonged, his concerns must be legitimate and not just part of his ongoing campaign to drive Q to a nervous breakdown before the end of the year.

“Bless you.” Q sighed and adjusted his glasses. “How about a compromise? I’ll stand in the back and observe the operation in real time. If I think they need help, I’ll jump in. In exchange, you go to medical and have a doctor evaluate whatever it is you’ve managed to come down with—you sound terrible.”

“Make sure they have a secondary option in case—”

“In case the access code doesn’t work, I know. There’s a secondary option and a tertiary option and abort procedures."

“So, you’re saying it’s under control?” Bond asked with a smirk. Q huffed in irritation and put a hand on Bond’s forehead.

“We’ve got it under control and you are burning up. If you are not in medical in the next five minutes I’m calling M. Do you understand, 007?”

“Perfectly,” he said with a sniffle. “You’ll let me know how it goes?”

“Four minutes.”

James’ laugh immediately choked into the wheezing cough that had set Q’s nerves on edge, but the agent got up and drained the rest of his tea.

“And Bond? Remember that every surveillance camera in this building feeds right here,” Q said, tapping his monitor. “If you don’t do as I’ve asked, I’ll know.”


	2. Q Has a Migraine

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Bond discovers Q in the middle of an intense migraine.

Q groaned when the door to his office opened.

"Q? Where are you?"

This time, it was a rather pathetic whimper followed quickly by an angry _shhh_. Bond let his eyes adjust to the darkness; there wasn't even the glow of a computer monitor to guide him. Once he could see enough to move gingerly around the space, he circled to the other side of Q's desk and found the young man curled up on the floor, his head cushioned on a rolled-up jacket. Bond knelt by Q's head and tried to make out his facial expression but didn't have much luck. He had a guess and kept his voice as low as possible.

"Migraine?"

"MmHm."

Well, that explained the aversion to light and sound. James placed a hand on Q's shoulder doing his best to try and be comforting (not exactly his strong suit).

"Did you take anything?"

"Not helping yet," Q whispered, the handful of words spiking through his skull like ice. Now that he was closer, James could hear the periodic whines of pain when the pain got particularly bad. There was a sofa on the opposite side of the room, so if Q hadn't even been able to make it that far and settled for the floor, he must be in particularly bad shape. Bond slipped off his suit jacket and draped it over Q's upper body. Then he got up and slipped out of the room as quietly as possible. After a quick trip to the nearest break room, he was back with a bottle of water and a damp towel. Q was in the same position and James sat down close to his head.

"If you can lift your head, I'll prop you up higher."

"Might vomit," Q said, but he did raise up a few inches and Bond took the opportunity to slide closer and let Q's head rest on his thigh. Q blew a long breath out through his nose and beads of sweat popped up along his brow. However, the shift in position ultimately helped.

"I'm going to put a damp cloth on your forehead," he whispered so the sensation wouldn't startle Q. The minute the cool, damp cloth came in contact with his skin, Q sighed in relief. It was the first bit of comfort he'd felt in almost an hour. James let a hand come to rest on Q's shoulder, still well aware that his head was far too volatile to touch. His one exception was when a few tears escaped when Q squeezed his eyes tight during a particularly strong wave of pain. James reached down and brushed them away before they had a chance to drip down towards his ears, but neither said a word. Q had made an offhanded comment about having migraines, but James had idea they could be this severe. It was alarming to see Q incapacitated like this, and Bond hated that there was so little he could do.

Over the next hour, the number of pained whimpers and flinches slowly reduced and Q's breathing deepened and became more regular. Bond was hoping he'd fallen asleep; he would sit on the grubby floor of Q's office for a few more hours if it meant the younger man was getting a break from the pain. Sleep didn’t seem to be part of Q’s plan though. He tentatively reached up and took the cloth off his head and he blinked his eyes to see if they could handle the tiniest bit of light.

“Sorry,” he said quietly. Bond dismissed the apology with a wave of his hand. Q slowly sat up and leaned against the back of his desk, posture matching Bond’s. The agent twisted the cap off the bottle of water and offered it to Q. He took a few sips and was pleased that his stomach didn’t hurt anymore. “Thank you for your help,” he mumbled.

“Any time, Q.” Truthfully, Q would have been more comfortable if Bond had teased him or cracked a joke; the quiet sincerity in his voice made it impossible for Q to avoid how bad off he’d really been.

“Want to try and stand?” Bond asked. Q nodded and the older man stood, then extended a hand. Q didn’t hesitate to take it and Bond pulled him to his feet, then kept a hand on Q’s arm until he was confident the quartermaster was steady. Bond picked the jackets up off the floor and handed Q his. He frowned as Q jiggled his computer mouse, waking the screen up from hibernation. In the light from the monitor, James could see how gaunt and exhausted Q looked.

“What on earth do you think you’re doing?” Bond asked when Q opened a coding program.

“What does it look like? Getting back to—”

“Like hell you are.”

“Bond—”

“Two and a half hours ago you were curled up on the floor. You’re going home to get some rest.” Q mumbled something that Bond couldn’t hear. “What did you say?” he asked.

“I said, I can’t take the tube like this. The light and noise is still too much.”

“Who said anything about the tube? Here,” James reached in his coat pocket and took out a pair of sunglasses that probably cost as much as Q’s mortgage payment. “I’ll get some earplugs from R&D testing and be back in two minutes. Be ready to go.”


	3. Your Other Left

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Bond doesn't follow Q's directions and faces the consequences.

“Okay, 007, at the next junction take a left and then go fifty meters,” Q said. Bond grunted in response and kept running through the underground sewer with his gun drawn and at the ready. “Everything alright down there?” Q asked.

“Trying not to think about what this sludge is doing to my shoes,” Bond said.

“Yes, criminals really should be more considerate of your wardrobe choices.”

Bond reach the junction and stopped, assessing his surroundings.

“I think I should go right,” he said.

“Negative,” Q said. “I’m looking at the schematics now. You need to go left.” He immediately watched 007’s GPS tracker turn right. “Are you doing this because I wasn’t concerned enough about your shoes?”

“I heard you. I’m taking my other left.”

“Bond—”

Q was cut off by the sound of a fist connecting with Bond’s torso. The agent’s gut instincts were right again.

“Damn. You’re going to be even more insufferable than usual,” Q said into Bond’s earpiece as the sound of more fighting ensued. “Assuming you live through this of course.” The scuffling went on for another minute or so. “Don’t tell me you lost your gun again, 007,” he said, sipping his tea. A bit of swearing and what sounded like a skull being smacked against a brick wall and Bond finally responded while breathing heavily.

“Target neutralized and asset recovered…sort of.”

“What do you mean sort of recovered?” Q asked.

“This flash drive is a little dented,” Bond said.

“You astound me.” Q heard his agent hiss in pain and then the sound of cloth tearing. “What did you do to yourself?”

“I didn’t do anything,” Bond growled. “Our former evil henchman maybe dislocated my shoulder.”

“I assume you’re constructing a makeshift sling?” Q asked, typing a command that would bring up the closest MI6 field medical station.

“Of course I am.”

“Right. No need to get snippy,” Q said. “If you’d gone left like I said you wouldn’t be injured.”

“I also wouldn’t have gotten the data or eliminated the target.”

“But your shoulder would still be in its socket. Speaking of which, there’s a medical center thirty kilometers west of the city. I’ll send you the coordinates.”

“I’m fine,” Bond said.

“A dislocated shoulder is not exactly how I would define fine, 007.” Q watched Bond’s GPS tracker blink up towards the street level and listened as he struggled to make it up the ladder and push open the manhole cover with just one working arm. He was winded by the time he finished and the fact that he was silent told Q everything he needed to know. “Bond, I want you to listen to me. I know you relish the opportunity to do the exact opposite of everything I say, but please, go and let them set your shoulder. It’s going to take at least ten hours to get you back to London and you’ll be in absolute misery the entire time.” He heard a heavy sigh and the fact that Bond hadn’t thrown out his earpiece let him know the agent was at least considering it. “It will only take two minutes and I’ll let them know it’s just the shoulder—no other treatment unless you pass out on them.”

“I’ll see you in ten hours and two minutes, Q.”


	4. Protecting Each Other

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Bond tries to shield Q from seeing the worst of a human trafficking ring, and Q looks after Bond once he returns from the nightmarish mission.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I tried to think of what field encounter might really rattle Bond. I though a human trafficking ring might do it. Trigger warning for alluding to sex trade and violence.

It was one of the worst assignments Q had ever managed. Bond had been sent to dismantle a human trafficking ring and the abstract nature of Q’s work suddenly had a very human face. All that was left was a warehouse where it was rumored there were young women being held and 007 swiftly killed all the smugglers with Q watching a live stream from the agent’s body camera and providing occasional intel to the agent through his earpiece. There were three shipping containers stacked on top of each other and the agent shot off the padlocks on each one. He wrenched open the door to the bottom container and shone a flashlight in on a horrifying scene. Bond heard Q’s sharp gasp and he turned his back so the Quartermaster didn’t see anything else.

“Q? Don’t watch,” Bond said. When the younger man didn’t answer, Bond raised his voice. “Do you hear me? Do not watch, Q.”

“You have to tape it,” Q said weakly.

“Yes, but that doesn’t mean you have to watch,” the agent said.

“I can do it,” Q said.

“No. You don’t need to see this.”

“You have to see it.”

“Yes, I do,” Bond sighed. “And I’ll never be able to un-see it. I won’t subject you to it, Q—don’t watch. Please.”

It was the quiet please, so unlike 007, that convinced Q to turn off his monitor and not watch while Bond checked for signs of life. His hands were clenched in such tight fists that there were going to be fingernail impressions in his palm.

“I’m still in your ear, 007,” Q said, trying to keep his voice calm. “I’m not watching, but I’m still with you.”

“Okay,” Bond said, gingerly stepping into the container. “The pipe for fresh air intake got bent at some point when they stacked the shipping containers. I’ll confirm, but it’s likely they all died by asphyxiation.” Q swallowed the bile in his throat and continued to listen to 007’s report. “Twelve bodies, all female, of east Asian origin. I’d guess between 30 and…and 10 years old.” Q didn’t comment on the uncharacteristic pause; he needed to keep Bond focused and then get him the hell out of there.

“I have backup en route to you,” he said.

Bond stepped around each young woman looking for any that might have miraculously survived, checking necks for pulses. They were underfed, dehydrated, dirty, and they had died slowly. By the time he confirmed that they were all dead, he could feel a white-hot rage pulsing behind his eyes. He had let the smugglers off too easy by shooting them. They should have been held and tortured like these poor women. Bond dealt in death and there wasn’t much that still disgusted him, but this made him shake with fury. He snapped and punched the side of the metal container. The pain that spiked through his fingers and wrist helped ground him. He struggled to get his breathing under control and he stormed out of the warehouse, tilting his eyes towards the sky and letting the bright light burn against his closed eyelids. At least the air was fresh out here.

“007, are you with me?” Based on Q’s tone, Bond knew this was not the first time the Quartermaster had tried to get him to respond.

“I’m here, Q,” he said.

“You’ve done all you can, Bond. Come home.” Q knew what a risky situation his agent was in—Bond’s habit after something emotionally challenging was to go off grid for weeks at a time, drink himself close to death, and engage in a series of ill-advised sexual exploits. Q wanted his agent back in London immediately. He typed a quick series of commands on his computer. “Can you get to the airport in an hour? I’ve got you on a flight out at 3:30pm.” Bond didn’t answer, but he hadn’t taken out his earpiece, so Q knew he was still online. “I’m sending you the flight info now. Just go to the airport and get back to London. Bond? Check your mobile. Did you get your ticket? Focus, 007.” Q heard a heavy sigh.

“Yeah, I got the ticket, Q.”

“Then don’t miss your flight.”

He could almost see Bond weighing his options—the desire to disappear into a bottle almost too strong to resist after what he just witnessed.

“Don’t miss your flight, 007. Please.”

He still didn’t answer, but a couple minutes later, Q heard the car start and Bond’s GPS marker began moving quickly towards the direction of the airport. Q left their line open as he went and fixed himself a cup of tea and then sat back down at his desk, working on a bit of code. Bond listened to the rhythmic noise of the younger man’s fingers flying over the keyboard, the pause when he sipped his tea, as well as the occasional noise of annoyance when he ran into a problem. His head was pounding, and he’d sell what was left of his soul for a drink. Bond knew it probably wasn’t a coincidence that he hit all green lights on his way to the airport, or that he had a first class ticket back to London, or that the plane was delayed for the extra 13 minutes he needed to make it to the gate. It was only when he was in his seat and had given the flight attendant strict instructions not to stop the flow of alcohol, that Bond quietly acknowledged his Quartermaster.

“Thanks, Q.”

“You’re welcome. Try and get some rest on the flight.”

“Signing off now,” Bond said, and the line went dead.

Eight cocktails, forty minutes of sleep, and a seven hour flight later, and Bond was back on British soil. All he wanted was to get home and keep drinking until he could sleep without seeing the inside of that shipping container again. He squinted in the bright light of the terminal and turned his mobile back on, scrolling through a series of text messages. The first was from M, asking him to have his report submitted within the next 24 hours. The second was from Moneypenny asking if he was okay. He deleted those and then looked at the third from a number he didn’t recognize.

Starbucks ahead on the left.

Bond raised an eyebrow and scanned the area ahead of him for the familiar coffeeshop sign. He walked towards it and stopped dead when he saw Q leaning against the wall next to the pickup counter. The Quartermaster had a pretty good poker face, and Bond wasn’t all that confident in his own at the moment. He wandered over to Q looking confused, like he was trying to figure out how to make two plus two equal pink. Q sighed when he got a good look at his agent: his eyes were bloodshot, chin covered in stubble, drunk, but not drunk enough to forget. He reached down and took the hand that Bond had used to punch the wall and winced when he saw how purple and swollen the knuckles were. Q methodically probed the joints and carefully bent each finger to check for breaks. He wasn’t sure if he should be relieved that Bond’s hand wasn’t broken, or worried that the agent was wordlessly standing there letting himself be examined in the middle of the airport.

“Don’t think you need an x-ray,” Q said quietly. Bond nodded. A barista called out “James” and Q stepped over to the counter and picked up two cups. He added milk to Bond’s and then held it out to him, but Bond just blinked like he didn’t comprehend what was going on. “You need something other than vodka in your system, Bond. Now come on.”

Bond followed Q out of the airport and through the parking garage like a confused puppy. His head was killing him, but the coffee was giving him a little more focus.

“Is it 4am?” he asked.

“Yes,” Q said, clicking the unlock button on his key fob and opening the trunk of his car. Bond put his bag in and then got in the passenger’s seat. Q started the car and adjusted the heating. “There’s painkillers in the glove box,” he said, putting the car in reverse. Bond thought about asking how Q knew he needed it, but assumed the pain was written all over his face. He helped himself to a couple pills and then leaned his head back and closed his eyes for a few minutes. Q glanced at him and frowned. He hadn’t been sure if showing up at the airport was a good idea, but his doubts evaporated the minute he laid eyes on Bond. The end of this mission would have gotten under the skin of even the most hardened agent, and it had clearly gotten to Bond.

“Think I can get a shower before seeing M?”

“I’m not taking you to MI6. I’m taking you home,” Q said.

“Oh. I just assumed.”

“MI6 will still be there tomorrow.”

It was silent the rest of the ride. James finished his coffee and felt the gnarled mess of tension in his chest loosen a little, but part of it had become a lump in his throat that refused to budge. The car was warm, and Q’s company was reassuring—he let his eyes drift shut again.

When the car stopped in front of his building, Bond was surprised when turned off the engine and got out of the car, but he didn’t say anything. He was even more surprised by the relief he felt at not having to face his empty flat alone. They silently took the elevator to the top floor and James entered the ten-digit passcode and thumbprint scan required to unlock the front door. Q followed him inside and watched Bond transform the minute the door closed behind them. He let his bag slip from his shoulder and hit the ground with a thump. Next, he took his jacket off and let that fall to the floor as well. Q came around to face the older man; he wasn’t so much surprised at what he saw, more that Bond was letting him see it. Bond’s face was pale and there were tears in his eyes. Q put a hand on his bicep and he watched Bond visibly try and swallow the lump in his throat.

“James?”

Bond nodded but didn’t say anything. He rubbed his forehead, the ache having returned with a vengeance, and he clenched his jaw to try and force back the tears.

“My head,” he finally whispered.

“I know,” Q said. “Come on.” Q took him by the elbow and tugged him towards the bedroom. Bond sat on the edge of his bed. “Pajamas?” Q asked and went to the drawer that Bond nodded towards. Meanwhile, Bond was doing his best to unbutton his shirt, but his fingers didn’t quite seem to want to cooperate. He probably should have been embarrassed when Q came back and took over, but he just couldn’t summon the energy. James felt old and tired relying on Q to help him change, but even he could recognize that he was in over his head. “I’m going to get some ice for your hand.”

When he came back Bond slid up in the bed and Q wrapped the ice pack in a towel and rested it on top of the agent’s battered hand. Q pulled the blankets up and then went to pull the drapes shut, Bond’s eyes tracking his every movement. If it made the young man uneasy, he didn’t say anything. In fact, he returned to sit on the edge of the bed.

“Do you need anything?” Q asked. Bond shook his head. “Okay. I want you to try and get some sleep. That number I messaged you from is my personal number. Please contact me if you need anything. It’s not a problem for me to come back over. But please don’t share the number with anyone else.”

“Thank you, Q.” Bond’s voice was low and hoarse.

“I’m sorry you had to witness that,” Q said.

“It’s my job.”

Q’s brow furrowed and he rested a hand on Bond’s shoulder.

“That shouldn’t have to be anyone’s job.”


	5. Q Needs a Break

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Q is stressed and taking it out on his coworkers. Bond insists the Quartermaster takes a break.

007 was making his way towards Q’s office when the door flew open and a junior tech came running out in tears. He glanced at R and she sighed.

“Q’s been a nightmare all week. Sure you don’t want to just leave your equipment with me?”

“What’s with Q?” he asked. R shrugged.

“It happens sometimes. Overworked, underfunded, stuck on a new algorithm.” Bond frowned and eyed the Quartermaster’s office. He’d never really considered Q feeling especially stressed; he always seemed collected…annoyed, or peeved at the very worst. He knocked on the door and let himself in.

“Are you making the minions cry for sport?” Bond asked.

“I didn’t make anyone cry,” Q said, glancing up from his monitor.

“The little blonde one who left a minute ago was close to sobbing.”

“I don’t have time for your nonsense, 007. Give me your equipment, and I swear, if you’ve lost anything, I’m sending you out into the field next time with a flip phone and a handful of gravel.”

Bond put a pristine gun, radio transmitter, and flash drive down next to Q’s keyboard, using the opportunity to assess his Quartermaster.

“I’ve never seen you like this,” Bond said quietly. “What’s going on?”

“Nothing. I’m just busy.”

“You’re always busy, Q.”

“Well, maybe if I didn’t have people constantly interrupting my work, I’d be able to get something accomplished!” he yelled. Bond crossed his arms and frowned, his eyes narrowing. Q never yelled. Sparred, occasionally belittled, but he never raised his voice.

“Now, I have a thicker skin than most,” Bond said, “but if you think I’m going to let you yell at me, you are sorely mistaken, Quartermaster.” His voice had lowered, Bond took a step closer to Q with each word. “You’re going to take a break and get your attitude in order.”

“And I suppose you think you’re going to make me?”

Bond sighed and let his arms drop. Intimidating 007 wasn’t getting him anywhere.

“For God’s sake, knock it off,” he said. “There are only three acceptable places to be when you’re in a mood as bad as yours: so do you want to go to the bar or the shooting range?”

“Just out of curiosity—”

“The bedroom,” Bond said with a wink.

“Obviously.”

“For the record, it’s not off the table; I was just—”

“Oh, shut up,” Q said, standing. “Let’s go shoot some things.”

They entered the range and Bond went to checkout weapons.

“You have a preference?” he asked Q .

“Glock 20.”

“You sure?” Bond asked. He was a little afraid that gun would knock Q on his ass the first time he shot it.

“If I’m here to work off my frustration, I’m going to need a big gun.”

Bond grabbed their shooting earmuffs and several rounds of ammunition. He handed the gun to Q and watched the younger man deftly load it and test its weight and balance. Bond stood a couple steps behind Q as the younger man raised slightly shaky hands and hesitantly pulled the trigger. He was off the mark, but he handled the recoil like he knew what he was doing. Bond stepped back another couple steps. The next shot was less hesitant, and it didn’t take long before Q fired off a series of rounds. As soon as the clip was empty, he changed it out and began again. By the fourth time Q emptied his gun, his aim was incredibly accurate and there was little left to the center of his target. He wasn’t quite as accurate as Bond, but he was as close as any non-00 he’d seen.

His ammunition was spent and so was Q. He put the weapon down and placed his hand down flat on the counter, letting his head sink low between his shoulders. Bond removed his ear protection and then did the same for Q.

“Better?”

“Yeah. It’s been a bad few weeks, but that’s not an excuse.”

“Everyone’s entitled to a bad day, Q.”

“I can’t take it out on my staff though.”

“It’s not ideal,” Bond conceded. It was quiet for a moment and Q rolled his head in a slow circle. “Is there anything I can do?” Bond asked. Q shook his head.

“No. It’s all things that take a little more finesse than you’re able to muster.” Bond smirked and Q tilted his head and smiled. “But thank you for bringing me down here. Who knew shooting things was such an effective stress reliever?”

“Well—”

“It was rhetorical, 007.” Q checked his gun back in and mentally prepared himself to go back to work. “My shoulder is going to hurt like hell, isn’t it?”

“Oh, you’re going to be lucky if you can lift your arm tomorrow if you don’t ice it. Decent aim though once you settled down.”

“If it impedes my ability to type, I’ll have M fire you.”


	6. Q Makes a Mistake

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> I got this as a prompt and really enjoyed writing it. Basically, Q makes a mistake, Bond gets injured, and Q tries to resign as Quartermaster. Nobody accepts his decision.

“How’s your shoulder?” M asked as 007 entered, his arm in a sling.

“A little physical therapy and I’ll be fine. Not sure I’m ready to be in the field just yet,” he said, eyeing the folder in M’s hand that usually meant another mission. While M always looked stressed, his frown looked particularly dour that morning.

“Yes, well, hopefully this won’t take long and it’s not exactly what I’d call field work, though I do consider it to be the highest priority.” That piqued that agent’s interest, and he took the folder with his good hand, scanning the contents. His eyebrows raised and he glanced up at M. “I want it dealt with, Bond. Quietly,” M said.

“Understood, sir.”

“Good. Dismissed.”

Bond heard the paper being torn up as he left M’s office.

“Do you have a plan yet?” Moneypenny asked.

“Working on it.”

“Kid gloves, James—he’s…he’s fragile.” He stopped and perched on the edge of her desk.

“You talked to him?” he asked.

“Not really. He just came into M’s office with his letter of resignation; didn’t even wait for me to buzz him in. He’s been holed up in his office for the last ten hours. I offered to try and talk him out of it, but M wanted you to since…” She nodded towards his shoulder. Bond nodded and stood. “Don’t screw it up,” Moneypenny said cheerfully.

It was obvious that Q hadn’t informed the minions of his decision; they were working as if everything was perfectly normal—perhaps a little unusual that Q hadn’t come out of his office in many hours, but certainly not unheard of. Bond knocked on the closed door but was met with silence.

“I know you’re in there, Q. Open the door.” He waited a moment then knocked again. “Either you let me in, or I’ll shout through the door. Of course, that means the whole staff will hear—” He stopped when the lock disengaged, and he was allowed to enter. “Now, isn’t this better?” he asked. Bond was doing his best to look nonchalant—annoying smirk on his face and all—but Q knew he was cataloging every little detail he could gather. The Quartermaster’s gaze settled on the sling supporting Bond’s left arm and felt his stomach turn.

“I’m guessing M sent you?” Q asked. Everything about Q screamed fatigue and defeat—from his voice to his posture.

“You guessed right.” Bond sat down in the chair across from Q’s desk, trying to figure out his best strategy. He tilted his head and worry lines creased his forehead. “I should have come to see you sooner,” Bond said.

“You were busy recovering from a completely unnecessary injury,” Q said, picking at a scratch in the surface of his desk.

“Which was not your fault,” Bond said.

“How exactly do you figure that? I mean, considering it was my faulty technology that literally blew up, embedding shrapnel in your shoulder.” Q slumped in his chair and rubbed his forehead like he had a headache. Bond definitely should have come early to reassure the Quartermaster that his injury wasn’t that severe and try and nip Q’s self-blame spiral in the bud.

“I’m fine,” Bond said. He caught the look on Q’s face and amended his statement: “I’ll be fine in a couple weeks. God knows, I’ve had worse.”

“Not because of me, you haven’t.”

“So you’re quitting.”

“Yes.”

“Forgive me for saying, but that is the dumbest decision you’ve ever made,” Bond said.

“I don’t trust myself.”

“Get over it.”

“Excuse me?”

“Get. Over. It.” Bond enunciated each word and leaned forward in his chair.

“You think it’s that easy?” Q snapped.

“Of course it’s that easy. Let it go and get back to work,” Bond said. Q gaped at him openmouthed. “I never took you as the self-pitying type,” Bond said. “But maybe I was wrong. Maybe you’re no different from all the other fragile 30-somethings who have no idea what real adversity is.” He needed Q mad—he couldn’t work with this sad, wounded puppy version. “Are you even 30? This is why MI6 shouldn’t hire children to—”

“Screw you, Bond! My age has nothing to do with anything. I’m one of four people on the planet that can break level 5 AI encrypted smart chips and I recruited one of the others and put the remaining two behind bars. I am—”

“You’re the best there is, Q,” Bond said firmly, silencing the younger man. Bond let the silence lay heavy in the room for a minute. At least there was some fire back in his eyes. “Q, you are the best the there is,” he repeated. “But no one is perfect—not even you. You made a mistake, Q and you’re going to make them again. You’ve got to find a way to make your peace with it.” Those ice blue eyes always made Q like the agent was running an emotional MRI. But it wasn’t as easy as 007 made it sound.

“Mistakes in the lab are one thing, but I sent you into the field with a faulty piece of equipment,” Q said and, damn if there wasn’t a lump in his throat. “You could have died, and it would have been my fault.” He could be embarrassed about the wobble in his voice later; right now it was taking everything Q had not to cry. Stupid Bond was, of course, choosing to keep silent at a time when Q could really use him to talk and give him a moment to pull it together. He sniffed and angrily swiped at his eyes. “And don’t flatter yourself and think it’s about you,” Q said. “I’m supposed to keep my agents safe, not put them in further danger. I can’t possibly recall and test every piece of equipment I’ve put out in the field and I can’t stop thinking about who I’m going to hurt next. My confidence is…it’s broken.”

“It’s bruised. There’s a difference,” Bond said. He reached across the desk and picked up a notepad and a pen and began writing. “You know, Moneypenny shot me and she didn’t quit,” he said. Admittedly, Q didn’t have a decent comeback for that. “I’ve been doing this job for too long and I’ve seen a lot. No one backs their agents like you. No one. Granted, the lapel pin detonated a little earlier than planned, but it’s a minor tear. I’ll be done with the sling in a couple days and a week or two of PT and I’ll be cleared for field duty again.” He tore the top sheet of paper off the note pad. Q opened his mouth to argue that this was beside the point, but Bond held up a hand to stop him. “Take this,” he said. Q took the sheet of paper and looked at the list Bond had written. “Those are all the times you’ve saved my neck. It’s a long list, Q.”

It was, in fact. There was something about seeing so many of 007’s near misses all in one place—he really should have died several times over. He probably would have if not for Q’s tech, or hacking skills, or fast thinking to get more resources to him.

“I’d be willing to bet every double 0 has a list that long,” Bond said.

“I don’t know,” Q replied. “You seem to get in more than your fair share of scrapes.” Bond smirked, feeling like his mission was very nearly accomplished. “When you say Singapore, is that 2016 or 2018? Because, if memory serves, I had to bail you out twice.”

“2018 doesn’t count. I had that under control.”

“I notice you left off Bolivia,” Q said. “And Rio. Did South American completely slip your mind?”

He stood and looked at Q with an eyebrow raised. Q nodded and the corner of Bond’s lip lifted in something terribly close to a smile. 

“Feel free to amend the list as you see fit, Quartermaster.”


	7. Collateral Damage: Part 1

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Q loses an agent and takes it hard. Bond keeps him from doing something he'd regret.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm not sure if I want to do a follow-up to this or not. Anyone interested in the inevitable hurt/comfort scene that follows when drunk Q gets back home?

It had been awful, even by MI6 standards. Even by double 0 standards. Certainly by Q’s standards. For an intelligence organization, word about this top-secret mission spread quickly. How 002 had been mortally wounded in a remote Siberian forest, 12 hours or more before they could get help to him. How the agent clung not only to life, but to consciousness, for hours. And how Q talked to 002 until his final breath. The quartermaster paced the length of his office again and again, an almost meditative practice, keeping up a steady, reassuring conversation with his agent.

Moneypenny and M walked into Q branch looking somber. While losing field agents wasn’t uncommon, it remained a grim part of their jobs. M glanced up at the glass walls of Q’s office.

“Is there any point in me trying to get in there?” he asked R.

“Not as long as 002 has a pulse.”

“Any estimate on how long that might be?” M asked, grimly. His frown deepened when R said she couldn’t really be sure. M took a headset off one of the desks and nodded to R, and she typed something onto her keyboard to unmute the audio feed. M’s lips narrowed in a thin line, and he closed his eyes for a moment before removing the headset and indicating that R should mute the audio again. He glanced at his quartermaster momentarily and then turned back to R. “He’s going to need some time after this.”

“We can handle it if you can convince him to take a few days,” R said.

“Keep me informed,” M said to Moneypenny before leaving for his office.

What had started as a conversation, slowly transformed into a monologue as 002 lost his ability to speak. An eerie silence had settled over Q branch—an odd sort of vigil for the agent lost half a world away. Another twenty minutes and the alarm flashed on the master screen that warned that 002’s wasn’t breathing. His heart rate stopped a moment later. Moneypenny sent a text to M, and everyone’s eyes went to Q’s office. His back was to the windows and the whole room seemed to be holding its breath when Q calmly took his coat and messenger bag and walked towards the exit. Moneypenny hustled to catch up with him.

“Q, darling? You alright?”

He nodded, but he shook her hand off his shoulder.

Bond nursed his second glass of bourbon from a small table in the back of the bar. Q was directly in his sightline, knocking back drinks at an impressive pace. M had requested passive surveillance if Moneypenny thought it prudent—she definitely had. While everyone knew that Q took personal responsibility for his agents, Bond had a unique perspective. How many times had that calm, collected voice in his ear kept him grounded, protected, or away from the edge of crippling despair that too often came with his job?

So, in an unusual inversion of their typical roles, Bond sat and observed, keeping watch over the asset placed in his care. Q swayed on his bar stool but ordered another drink. Hopefully, James would have to do nothing more than trail Q until he safely made it back to his flat; the younger man wouldn’t like to be seen in this state, and Bond respected both his privacy and his grieving process. However, when a man approached Q and began aggressively hitting on him, the hair on the back of Bond’s neck stood up. It wasn’t so much that the man was hitting on Q, as how he was doing so…and how it was being received. He couldn’t hear what Q was saying, but his body language was uncomfortable.

James stood and silently worked around the perimeter of the room so that he could approach the bar from behind Q and directly in the other man’s view. The closer Bond got, the less he liked this would be suitor. He stood behind his quartermaster and leveled the man with a look that had him quickly making his apologies and disappearing into the crowd.

“What the—oh, bloody hell,” he sighed as he turned to find Bond sitting down next to him. “M or Moneypenny?”

“Team effort,” Bond said, signaling the bartender. “Two coffees and the check,” Bond said with a nod towards Q.

“I’m fine,” Q said.

“I told them that.”

“I’ve lost agents before.”

“I told them that too,” Bond said.

“I don’t need anyone worrying over me.”

“I also told them that.”

“Do you believe any of that?” Q asked.

“That’s not important. What’s important is if you believe it.”

They paused their conversation when the bartender brought their coffees and the check. Bond pulled out his wallet and dropped a credit card on the polished wood surface. Q was drunk and his thoughts were slow.

“You don’t need to,” he managed.

“I’ve got it,” Bond said.

“Don’t need your pity,” Q mumbled.

“It’s not pity and, if it makes you feel any better, it’s an MI6 card,” he said with a smirk.

Q put his elbows on the bar and rested his head in his hands with a sigh.

“Couldn’t just let me have one night of irresponsible escapism?”

“Drink your coffee.” James put some milk and sugar into the cup and then slid it closer to him. Q sipped it—he was much more of a tea person, but he was too weary to argue. “You would have regretted it,” Bond said quietly. Q looked incredulous and Bond’s lips quirked. “Yes, I would know. Trust me. You think it’ll help, but it doesn’t.”

“What does help?”

“Nothing.”


	8. Collateral Damage: Part 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Once he gets home, Q comes apart and Bond thinks about what their work does to the

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A bit of bad language in this section.

It took a bit of manhandling, but James got Q from the bar back to the younger man’s flat. Q flipped on a light and slipped out of his coat, tossing it towards a chair and missing. Bond put his messenger bag on the kitchen table and watched Q look around his house like he wasn’t sure how he got there.

“Do you want to take a shower before you—” Bond was silenced when a pair of warm lips pressed up against his. Q’s slim fingers wound their way over Bond’s shoulders and up into his short hair. James gently took hold of Q’s wrists and tugged them down, drawing back and ending the kiss. “Q,” he sighed quietly. “You don’t want this—not really.”

“You don’t know what I want,” Q whispered, doing his best to reignite the kiss.

“Neither do you,” James said.

“I know exactly what I want,” Q mumbled against Bond’s ear. James released Q’s wrists and put a hand on either side of the man’s face, leaning back so he could look in Q’s glassy eyes.

“You’re drunk and hurt,” Bond said.

“M’not that drunk,” Q said.

“Debatable. But you _are_ that hurt,” Bond said. “You’d hate me in the morning, and I could live with that, but you’d hate yourself more and I won’t allow that.” James watched a half dozen emotions pass through Q’s eyes as he continued to cup his face, and he could feel Q’s jaw wobble as he fought to keep from crying.

“Please,” he whispered. “I need it to stop. Please, make it stop…just for a few minutes.”

Bond brushed a stray tear from Q’s cheek with his thumb.

“Make what stop?” he asked gently. Bond leaned forward and kissed Q’s forehead. “What’s going on in there?”

Q squeezed his eyes shut and a few tears fell in earnest. James pinched the bridge of Q’s glasses and slid them off his face. He’d only seen Q without his glasses a few times before, but it always surprised him how much younger he looked without them. It was like a piece of armor stripped away. After securing the glasses, Bond went back to holding Q’s head in his hands, feeling the alcohol-flushed skin beneath his calloused palms.

“Talk to me, Q,” he said.

That phrase triggered something deep in Q’s chest. It was what 002 has said to him while he laid in the snow, slowly bleeding to death so far from Q’s reach. _Talk to me, Q,_ he’d said. _Talk to me until_ … And so Q had—he’d discussed anything and everything he could think of so that 002 felt less alone in his final hours. Lighthearted at times, serious at others, occasional medical advice from Q to try and ease his agent’s pain. He felt all the air leave him in a sudden, choked gust.

Bond saw it happening—the pained cry and the impending collapse. He did his best to slow Q’s slump onto the floor, and he settled next to him, discarding his tie and unbuttoning his cuffs. Q had his hands over his ears, fingers tugging the hair at his temple hard enough that James was a little concerned he might eventually pull it out.

“Shh…stop that,” he said, untangling Q’s fingers. “Can’t have you ruining that trademark hair of yours. Come on, Q. You’re going to hurt yourself."

“I can’t get the sound out of my head,” Q sobbed.

“What sound?”

When Q looked over and met Bond’s eyes, James felt his stomach lurch.

“That horrible…that crackling gurgle—”

“Oh, fuck.” James pulled Q towards him and wrapped his arms around Q tightly. He knew exactly what sound Q was talking about. Some called it a swansong, some a death rattle, but Bond knew that unmistakable noise of a person fighting for their last breaths. It was impossible to describe to someone who hadn’t heard it and impossible to forget once you had.

“He just wouldn’t let go,” Q moaned. “He was in so much pain—I tried to tell him it was okay, but he just wouldn’t…”

“I know.” James didn’t know what else to say to him. It wasn’t okay. Q wasn’t okay. He wasn’t going to calm down anytime soon. Bond got a handkerchief out of his pants pocket and slipped it to Q, then he stretched his legs out and made sure Q was tucked up against his chest. It wasn’t often that Bond reflected on the collateral damage caused by their jobs, but it was impossible to ignore in the quiet of that small apartment as he was holding together the broken pieces of one of the world’s greatest minds. With his intellect, Q had limitless choices, but he made the decision to serve his country. He could have made billions in the private sector. Hell, he could have become one of the villains that Bond spent his life tracking down, but for his heart—his kind, tender heart. James ran his fingers over top of Q’s hair, and he felt him shudder with another sob. Collateral damage.

They sat on the floor for over an hour. Bond’s left knee was stiff, and he was afraid Q was going to have a sore neck if he slept that way for much longer. His eyes flicked towards the hall when he heard the tinkling of a small bell announce the arrival of one of the cats—the sleek black one with sharp grey eyes. She walked over Bond’s legs and, to his surprise, Q reached down and stroked a hand over the cat’s head.

“Thought you were asleep,” Bond said.

“Too embarrassed to move.”

James made a disapproving noise and rubbed Q’s shoulder.

“You know what I was thinking about while we sat here?” Bond asked.

“What you’d rather be doing instead of babysitting your quartermaster during his emotional breakdown?”

James smirked—it was reassuring to hear Q a little more like himself. Exhausted, maybe still a little tipsy, but more grounded.

“I was thinking about the collateral damage of this job; the cost of it.”

“It cost 002 his life today,” Q sighed.

“It cost you too,” Bond said. “But I need you to really hear me, Q. You did something exceptional today.” Q scoffed (just as James knew he would). “002 was going to die regardless—nothing was going to change that, but to have a kind voice in his ear…you don’t know what that did for him.”

Q was frozen and silent.

“Don’t be embarrassed of the mark today left on you, Q—be proud of it.” The silence that followed was slightly less uncomfortable. “I need to get you a couple glasses of water, a few asprin, and some sleep if you’ve got any chance of warding off a hangover.”

“How long has M benched me for?” Q asked, sitting up slowly.

“It’s open-ended, but I’d guess at least three days.”

Q sighed and rolled his neck from one side to the other, then stood up. James rubbed his sore knee before bending it to test how it felt. He glanced up when Q’s hand entered his field of view. The smile didn’t quite reach Q’s eyes, but it was something.

“Come on, old man,” he teased.

“You should respect your elders,” Bond said as he let Q help him up off the hardwood floor. Now that they were both standing, Q was doing his best to avoid looking James in the eye. The older man gently took him by the chin, his eyes narrowing as he got a good look at him. “Can you handle a shower?” Q nodded silently. “Good. Hungry?” When Q shook his head, Bond let go of his chin. “Okay. Just water then. It’s late,” he said, despite it only being a little past 10pm. “Can I sleep on your sofa?”

Q smiled—not his usual sarcastic smirk—but an actual small smile.

“Please do.”


	9. Bond Can't Sleep

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Bond battles insomnia, and Q offers some help.

“You look awful,” Q said, glancing up from his computer.

“Good to see you too,” Bond grumbled, putting his equipment down on Q’s desk. He sat down in the chair across from Q’s desk with a sigh and loosened his tie and undid the first couple buttons of his shirt. Q stopped working and looked at his agent. He hadn’t been exaggerating—Bond really did look terrible, despite the fact that it wasn’t a terribly dangerous mission. There were dark circles under his eyes and a slump in his shoulders that was unusual. There was a layer of stubble on his face that aged him a decent five years and suggested a weariness that Q didn’t usually associate with 007.

The quartermaster stood and went to a locked storage cabinet behind his desk. After moving a few things aside, he took out an old bottle of scotch and a couple glasses. Q poured a splash in a glass for himself, and a generous glass for Bond. The glass bottle made a satisfying _thunk_ when he put it on the desk in front of 007. The agent’s lips quirked when as he accepted his glass and he’d downed the liquor before Q had even settled back in his chair. 007 refilled his glass but sipped it slowly this time. Q frowned and crossed his arms across his chest.

“Any difficulties in Ukraine?” Q asked.

“No.”

“Troubles with M?”

“No.”

“Hm. That’s rare,” Q said. He found it troubling that Bond wasn’t rising to take the bait or respond with sarcasm. A sullen Bond was, generally, not a good thing. “So, what’s bothering you?”

“Nothing,” the agent said, going for his third drink.

“Bond, you’re certainly under no obligation to tell me what’s going on, but don’t insult my intelligence by saying it’s nothing.” Q kept his tone light, like he might have been discussing the weather or what he was considering for dinner. Even the glare Bond tried to level him with was fatigued. “Drink your scotch and don’t glower at me, 007.”

This actually earned him a tired huff of a laugh. Q got back to work, and the room was silent except for his typing. Q knew that if Bond was going to talk to him, it would take quite a while. Spies were solitary, suspicious, and carried a ton of baggage. Bond might talk or he might get up and leave the office without uttering a word—either option was fine with Q. He might have to do some prying later on, but sometimes Bond just needed another presence to share the silence with. After about twenty minutes or so, Bond finally broke the silence.

“I can’t sleep,” he said.

“Insomnia?”

“No, narcolepsy. Of course insomnia!” Bond snapped.

“Right. Sorry. I just meant…I didn’t think that was something you typically struggled with.”

“It’s not.” Bond swirled the amber liquid in his glass and kept his eyes on it.

“How long’s it been since you slept?”

“I grab an hour here and there, but it’s been almost a week since I slept more than two hours at a time.”

Q frowned. That really was quite a long time. And if Bond was here talking to him about it, he’d obviously exhausted all other options. He straightened his glasses and folded his hands on top of his desk.

“Well, let’s brainstorm, shall we? These things are almost never biological in nature, so assuming you don’t want me to order a CT scan, let’s start at the beginning.” It was a fairly transparent workaround to calling Bond’s issue psychological. “Is there something on your mind causing you worry or distress?”

“No.”

Single word answers weren’t exactly what he was hoping for, but Q knew that since Bond hadn’t stormed out, he was open to exploring possible causes.

“The mission prior to this issue arising was the intel mission in Singapore, correct?” Bond nodded and Q pressed on. “Hm. That was a fairly routine operation. So it seems unlikely that’s it’s work-related. Is something bothering you in your personal life?”

“I don’t have a personal life,” Bond said.

“You may have a dull personal life, but you still have one,” Q said.

Bond ran a hand over his face and leaned forward in his chair, resting his elbows on his knees.

“Would you be willing to try something?” Q asked.

“What do you have in mind?”

“Go lay down on the sofa over there. I’m going to get a couple things that I think might help.”

“I’m not going to kip in your office,” James said.

“Don’t be difficult, 007. Be a good agent and follow instructions.”

Q left the office and Bond considered taking the opportunity to bolt, but once he stood up, he wasn’t entirely sure he had the energy to make it to his car. He was just so damned tired. He’d even briefly considered asking medical for sleeping pills, but he was certain it would result in a mandatory evaluation by psych, and he really didn’t need that. He couldn’t quite explain why he’d come to Q for help. It probably had something to do with the fact that Q frequently solved impossible problems for him, as well as the fact that Q wouldn’t hold this over his head. For all the sarcasm and banter the two engaged in, true vulnerabilities were handled with care.

When Q returned he was pleased to see that Bond had listened and was sitting on the sofa. He handed his agent a cup of tea.

“Chamomile,” Q said. He waited until Bond took a few sips, and then he went back to the locked cabinet behind his desk and took out a pillow and blanket. “Have you finished?” he asked Bond. When he nodded, Q took the mug and put the pillow at one end of the sofa. “Lay down and get comfortable.” The sofa wasn’t quite long enough to accommodate his entire body, so Bond propped his feet up on the opposite armrest. Q spread the blanket over him. “Shut up,” he said, catching the look on his agent’s face. “I’m just trying to help. Now close your eyes.”

James did as he was told, and he was pleasantly surprised when something warm and heavy came to rest over his eyes and forehead. The smell of lavender floated over him.

“I warmed it up in the microwave. It’ll help,” Q said. “I’ve got a larger one I’m going to place on your chest.” At the same time, a warm weight settled in the center of his sternum. “Research suggests that strategic weight placement can stimulate the parasympathetic nervous system, and lavender slightly increases melatonin levels in some people—though I think that one could do with a bit more research.”

Bond let out a deep, contented sigh. Some of the tension leached out of his body and he registered Q saying that he was going to take his shoes off. He could already feel himself growing drowsy, and a thought slowly floated to the front of his tried brain.

“Q?”

“Hm?”

“Did you drug the tea?”

“Does that sound like something I would do?” His voice was quiet, and he placed a hand on Bond’s shoulder. “Get some sleep.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The weights that Q puts on Bond's eyes and chest and these wonderful scented buckwheat things. When they've been warmed in the microwave, the scent is intensified and they really do help you sleep. My nephew used a tiny one as an infant and I loved his so much I bought larger ones for myself.


	10. Q is Injured

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Q takes a bullet in the arm during an attempted break-in at Q Branch. Bond gets him out and fixes him up.

“Where are we going?” Q asked as Bond took another corner at an inadvisable rate of speed.

“Don’t worry about it. Here, press that to your arm and try not to bleed all over my upholstery.” He took a handkerchief from his pocket and handed it over to Q, who just stared at it like it was a foreign species. “Focus, Q. Your arm.”

“My arm?”

“There’s a gunshot wound in the left one.”

“It doesn’t hurt,” Q said. Bond zoomed down a side street before responding.

“That’s the shock. You still need to try and stop the bleeding though.” Bond slowed down slightly and kept a grip on the steering wheel with one hand, the other taking the white cloth back and pressing it firmly to the wound in Q’s left bicep since the younger man didn’t seem up to the task at the moment. “Hold it there. Good,” he said when Q took over putting pressure on it. Bond’s mobile rang and he answered using the car’s Bluetooth.

“Moneypenny?”

“Q Branch is secure,” she said. “You’re safe to come back.”

“Well, forgive me for doubting your assessment, but we thought it was secure an hour ago when an intern let in four armed gunmen and—”

“They’re down. M wants you back and Q needs to go to medical.”

“Too bad.” He hung up and Moneypenny knew better than to call back. When he glanced at his quartermaster, he found him looking slightly grey and glassy eyed. “Don’t pass out,” he said. “We’re only a couple blocks out.”

“We should go back to MI6,” Q said. It sounded halfhearted even to his own ears. The last thing he wanted was to be back in that chaos.

“No,” Bond said. A second later he glanced at Q and added, “You can answer M’s questions just as easily on the phone and I can patch up your arm.” The fact that Q didn’t offer even token disagreement reassured the agent that he was making the right call.

James pulled up in front of his building and had his gun at the ready just in case. He went around to Q’s side and held the door open, eyes sharp as they made their way to the entrance. It wasn’t until they were safely inside Bond’s flat, doors locked, security system armed, that the agent relaxed and took a breath. He put his gun on the kitchen counter and grabbed a bottle of scotch and a couple glasses. Q seemed frozen in the doorway, one hand still clutching his injured arm.

“Come on, Q. Let’s fix you up.”

There was a diluted buzzing sound in his head. Intellectually, Q knew Bond was right when he told him he was in shock, but he couldn’t seem to get his feet to move—like the pathway between his brain and his legs was miles too long for the message to travel. The icy blue eyes of 007 swam into his field of view, and Q did his best to focus. He felt two warm, calloused fingers press underneath his jawline to check his pulse. Those fingers moved to the nape of his neck and Q let himself be steered through a bedroom and into the en suite bathroom. He sat down on the edge of the bathtub.

Bond got a large first aid kit from underneath his sink, then poured each of them a generous glass of scotch. He downed his in a single swallow but put Q’s next to him after he didn’t take it when offered. James was a little concerned that Q hadn’t said more than ten words since he pulled him from the midst of a firefight that broke out in his branch. His pulse was still a little high, but not dangerously so, and understandable given Q’s lack of experience with live in-person gunfire. He put on a pair of gloves and decided to see what he was dealing with, starting with unbuttoning a cardigan that Bond wouldn’t be sad to see go. After tossing it into the corner of the bathroom, he moved on to Q’s shirt. The only sign that the younger man was aware of what was going on was a slight wince when Bond peeled the fabric away from where Q had been shot.

“Tell me if you need a break,” he said. He turned on the bath water and let it warm before taking the detachable showerhead and turning it to its lowest setting and letting the water wash away the dried blood on Q’s arm so he could better see the wound. “It’s a through and through shot. That’s good,” Bond said, not sure if Q was listening or not. “I’m going to need to put a couple stitches in and disinfect it.” He opened a large antibiotic cleansing pad and paused before setting to work. “This is going to sting.” Q hissed at the first touch but held still while Bond worked on him. The pain helped ground him and he watched the agent methodically cleaning up his injury. A chill hit him suddenly and Q registered something Bond said about needing him shirtless for a few more minutes and then the glass of scotch was nudged into his hand again. He took a sip and felt the heat of the alcohol sit warmly in his stomach. Q felt the slight pinch of a needle as Bond injected lidocaine into his bicep before he sat back on his heels to let the numbing agent do its work.

“Need anything?” James asked. Q shook his head. Bond still didn’t love the grayish hue of the younger man’s skin or how disconnected he was. Q liked procedures, plans, order, so James kept up a quiet, steady monologue as he threaded a needle and began to stitch up Q’s arm. “After this, I’ll get you some clean clothes. People tend to feel either very hot or very cold when they’ve been hurt; I’m guessing it’s the latter with you.” The goosebumps on his skin and the occasional shiver making it obvious which category Q fell into. “At some point, you’ll stop dissociating and have some kind of reaction,” Bond said, eyes focused on the pale skin in front of him. “Whatever that reaction looks like is fine. I’ll deal with M for now because you’re nearly asleep sitting up. As long as you don’t get an infection and spike a fever, you don’t need to go back until tomorrow. When it’s time, I’ll take you—afraid you’re stuck with me until I’m convinced this was a one-off attempt by a group of amateurs.” He knotted off his stitch and cut the excess thread, then placed gauze over top and began wrapping Q’s bicep to keep everything sterile and dry.

“Thank you,” Q said. His voice was raspy, and he cleared his throat. Bond’s lip tilted up in a hint of a smile.

“It’s going to leave a scar.”

“I meant for getting me out of there. Alive.”

James lifted his eyes to meet Q’s. It was the first time either of them admitted just how close a call Q had had. By chance, Bond was in M’s office when the alarm went off that Q branch had been breached so he was part of the cavalry that descended in the moments that followed. He moved around the perimeter of the room, inching closer to Q.

“You did a good job keeping them talking until we could get there.”

“Not good enough,” Q mumbled.

“Hey, look at me.” James’ voice was firm. “You did what you’re supposed to do: bought time and saved lives—almost at the expense of your own.” Bond had seen it coming just in time, the minute shift of a finger on a trigger and he yanked Q down so that he only took a bullet to the arm instead of the chest.

“Are you going to be insufferable about the fact that you saved my life?”

“Absolutely.” He stood and gathered all the medical detritus, stripping off his gloves when he put it all in the bin. “But not until you’re fully recovered. That’s in poor taste.” He winked at Q and held out a hand, hauling the younger man to his feet. It earned him a tired smile, but he’d take it.


	11. Q is Injured Part 2

By the time he got Q into sweatpants and a Tshirt, the younger man was swaying on his feet and Bond pulled the blankets back on his bed.

“Settle in and rest. I need to call M and then I’ll bring you something light to eat so you can have some pain meds, okay?” James asked, not really expecting an answer. Satisfied that Q was in bed, he left the door slightly ajar and went into his kitchen. James put water on to boil, and grabbed his mobile; unsurprisingly, there were four missed calls from M. Bond rolled his neck from one side to the other, working out some of the tension and took a deep breath before calling his boss back.

“Bond? How is he?”

“He’ll be fine, sir.”

“Why isn’t he in medical right now?”

“It was a through and through shot to his bicep. I’m perfectly capable of cleaning and dressing a bullet wound,” Bond said.

“So are the highly trained doctors and nurses on the MI6 payroll. So, I’ll ask again: why isn’t the quartermaster in medical right now?”

“Because the last thing he needs is a cold, sterile room with medical professionals more adept at treating seasoned agents, than a kid who’s just suffered his first gunshot,” Bond snapped. It was silent for several seconds, and he could imagine M pacing his office debating if this was a fight worth having.

“He’s thirty-four,” M finally sighed. Bond heard him sit down (likely at his desk) and pour himself a drink. “How is he, Bond—really?”

“It hasn’t hit him yet. Barely flinched when I stitched him up.”

“What a bloody disaster,” M said.

“What the hell happened today, sir?”

“One of the interns from the summer program was trying to get access to the UN refugee database. He’s a domestic political extremist. He recruited a local crew on the dark web.”

“How the bloody hell did he get access to MI6 in the first place?”

“We’re still looking into it, but it seems his radicalization is fairly recent. He shouldn’t have been able to get access to Q branch though. It was either a technical error that allowed his keycard to work or he had help.”

“He had help,” Bond said without hesitation.

“I agree,” M said. “Two of the five survived and are undergoing interrogation as we speak.”

“Who’s doing the interrogating?” Bond fixed Q a cup of tea and rummaged through his cupboards to see what he had that Q might be willing to eat.

“Parker,” M said. Bond hummed in approval—Agent Parker would get answers. “Bond? We are going to need to talk to him eventually,” M said.

“Not until he’s ready.”

“Bond—”

“When he’s ready.”

“And you’re the one determining when that is?” M asked, already knowing the answer. Bond let the silence speak for him. M sighed. “Fine.”

“And, sir? If this isn’t resolved to my satisfaction, I will take a more hands-on approach.” He ended the call before M had a chance to respond. When he turned his head, he saw Q standing in the kitchen doorway.

“Are you trying to get yourself censured?” Q asked.

“Just managing expectations,” Bond said. He appraised Q with a critical eye. “How are you doing?”

“My arm is throbbing actually.” He was embarrassed admitting his discomfort to a double 0—someone who suffered much more severe injuries on a regular basis. His head jerked up when Bond put a hand on his good arm.

“That’s not unusual for a soft tissue injury. The bullet tore through some muscle and sometimes that hurts more than a broken bone.”

“The bullet,” Q whispered. “Right.”

James stayed still and watched Q process the information, some of the numbness melting away. His eyes watered and he took a slow breath in through his nose and out through his mouth. Bond quietly prompted him to do it again, and then a third time. 

“Good. Now go sit on the sofa. I made you some tea and found some biscuits that I don’t think are stale. Get something in your stomach and I’ll get you a couple Vicodin.”

Q nodded and shuffled over to the leather couch. He cradled the warm mug of tea in his hands and focused on the heat against his palms and fingers. Bond put a small plate of biscuits down on the coffee table as well as two blue caplets.

“These will tear your stomach up if you don’t eat anything,” he said. Q nodded and picked up a shortbread and took a couple small bites. “I’m going to go change,” Bond said. “Here’s the remote if you want to watch something. This button is for—”

“I’m one of the world’s best IT experts. You think I need you to explain how the tele works?” There was the tiniest hint of a smile on the young man’s face.

“Smartass.” James said it like a compliment and went to his room to change. First, he went to his bathroom and gathered Q’s clothes off the floor to wash them. Next he changed into jogging pants and a sweatshirt before straightening the bed so it would be ready in the event Q ever felt ready to get some sleep. He checked his mobile and was happy to see that there were no messages. Feeling a little more relaxed, James returned to the living room and stopped dead in his tracks. Q was clutching a pillow like his life depended on it and sobbing as quietly as he could. He doubled back to pull the quilt off his bed, then cautiously approached Q. James wasn’t surprised; he knew something like this was imminent, but it was still awful to witness. He sat on the sofa and draped the blanket over Q’s shoulders. He mumbled something unintelligible, so Bond leaned down closer.

“I didn’t hear you.”

“M’sorry.”

James sighed and reached over to pull the pillow out of Q’s grasp, but he resisted the older man’s efforts.

“Now, now, I’m much better than that scratchy sofa pillow,” Bond said. He tugged at the pillow again and this time Q let him take it. James caught a glimpse of Q’s tear-streaked face in the seconds it took for him to take the place of Q’s pillow, pulling the younger man to his chest. “That’s better,” he said as he brought the blanket up and let Q hide underneath. Bond propped his feet up on the coffee table and took a deep breath to settle himself and tamp down the surge of anger building. The remaining living people who hurt Q better pray that they end up in prison where he couldn’t reach them—he was ready to slowly and painfully make them pay for every tear currently soaking into his sweatshirt. Given their line of work, it was unlikely Q would have been able to go his entire career without dealing with a close call like this, but he just seemed too damn young for it to happen now (despite M’s reminder that Q was in his mid-thirties).

Q was thankful for the quilt not just because he was freezing cold, but because it allowed him to hide his face from Bond. He wasn’t thrilled to admit it but curling up against a warm body was definitely better than the pillow he was using when Bond discovered him sobbing in the living room. He was surprised at how suddenly and violently he’d come back to himself—like a hard system reboot. One minute he was drinking his tea after choking down a couple cookies, and the next minute he felt like he was being suffocated with fear, and anger, and something else he couldn’t even name. He tried to get himself under control in the five minutes Bond was out of the room, but it was no use. Whatever had begun was unstoppable. After a moment of embarrassment and token resistance, he’d let James hug him to his chest then wrap him up in the blanket to wait out whatever storm was raging in him. He’d never experienced anything like it before; of course, he’d never been nearly-fatally shot before so that made a little bit of sense.

Mindful of Q’s bad arm, Bond snaked a hand underneath the edge of the blanket and carded his fingers through Q’s hair. The younger man took a huge, shuddering breath and relaxed a little but never stopped crying. He grabbed a handful of Bond’s sweatshirt like he was afraid he’d drift away without it. Q struggled to try and slow his breathing. He kept his focus on the feeling of Bond’s fingers running through his hair—surprisingly gentle and steady. Not once had Bond encouraged him to stop crying or calm down. In fact, he’d shown surprising patience from the moment he’d shoved him into his Aston Martin and taken off through the streets of London.

The tears tapered off until it was just an occasional hiccup or yawn. He let go of Bond’s shirt and slowly sat up, finally emerging from the nest of blankets he’d sunk into. His face was flushed, and his eyes felt tacky and hot. Q scrubbed at his face before putting his glasses back on. He couldn’t avoid making eye contact with Bond forever, but he was doing his best to prolong it as long as possible.

James knew exactly what Q was doing and why. His lips crept upwards as he did his best to smooth Q’s hair down before readjusting the blanket so Q was still well covered.

“Better?” the agent asked quietly. Q nodded. “Want some water?” Another nod. Bond went and got him a glass of water and a handful of tissues. While he was giving Q a moment to pull himself together, Bond went and ran a washcloth under warm water in his bathroom sink. He sat back down on the sofa and gently tilted Q’s face towards him, blotting away the tear tracks before balling up the cloth and tossing it on the coffee table. “Okay,” Bond sighed. “Tell me where your head’s at.”

“What happens next?” Q asked.

“Tomorrow you need to get an x-ray and an MRI on the arm to make sure nothing’s damaged. M wants to debrief you, but I can sneak you out of medical if you don’t want to do that yet.” James winked at him.

“You have your own secret tunnel out of medical, don’t you?”

“Trade secrets. They’re questioning the two attackers who survived.”

“I can’t—”

“You don’t have to. It’s doubtful M would let you work on it anyway, but you don’t have to see them.”

“Okay.”

“You’ve got to be exhausted,” Bond said.

“I may need to be nicer to you the next time you get shot. It’s a little more intense than I’d imagined,” Q said. James huffed a laugh.

“I’ll remind you of that.”

They slowly made their way towards the bedroom, Q trailing the quilt behind him like an oversized toddler. Once he sat on the bed, Q fidgeted with the edge of the sheet.

“Bo—James,” he said quietly. “Thank you. Truly. I probably would have died today…at least been gravely injured.” He took an audible breath and continued. “And thank you for looking after me tonight. It’s a bit fuzzy, but I know I’ve been quite needy in the aftermath.”

“I know field agents who didn’t handle their first gunshot as well as you did. I’m just really glad you’re okay, Q.”

He got settled under the blankets and yawned. Bond took his glasses and laid them on the nightstand.

“I’ll be out on the sofa if you need anything.”

“You don’t need to stay out there on my account.”

A few minutes later, the room was dark and both men were eager for sleep. Bond ran a hand over his face and sighed.

“Christ, I’m glad you’re okay, Q,” he said quietly. “Come here.” Q slid over a few inches and settled his head on Bond’s chest and almost immediately fell asleep. James listened as Q’s breathing slowed and evened out for several minutes before closing his eyes himself and nodding off.


	12. Bond Grieves

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Q finds Bond injured and grieving in M's flat after Skyfall.

His first weeks as MI6 Quartermaster were not exactly going as planned, he thought as he shook off his dripping anorak inside the lobby of M’s building. Well, the late M’s building. He’d just arrived home when his mobile pinged with an alert that 007 had left medical the moment the staff’s back was turned. Eight minutes later another alert told him someone had accessed M’s flat which was a little concerning since the poor woman was deceased. It crossed Q’s mind that maybe he should just let 007 mourn in peace and not interfere, but then he read the man’s medical chart and grabbed his keys setting out into the pouring rain again.

He overrode the security access (goodness only knows how Bond did that) and let himself into the penthouse apartment. As soon as Q turned on the light, he saw Bond sitting on the living room floor with a gun trained on the front door. The agent’s finger moved off the trigger when he saw it was his Quartermaster, but he didn’t lower the gun quite yet.

“Please tell me this isn’t one of those trigger-pulling situations, 007,” he said.

“How did you know I was here?”

Q slipped out of his wet shoes and slowly approached Bond.

“Well, within less that 10 minutes I received notifications that you’d left medical and someone had entered this flat. Didn’t take a genius to put two and two together.”

“Did you tell anyone else?”

“No,” Q said, sitting down next to Bond. Their backs were resting against the wall and the agent had an open bottle of whiskey next to him. He looked bad—even worse than when he’d returned at the start of this whole mess and he certainly looked worn thin then. “Does breaking in and drinking her alcohol help?” Q asked.

“Call it a tribute,” Bond said, a weary smirk tugging at his lips. “I used to let myself in when…” he trailed and took another deep drink straight from the bottle.

“She didn’t seem like the type to welcome uninvited guests.”

“Hated it—threatened to shoot me once.” Something that might have been a laugh caught in his throat and James began to cough. He curled inwards and coughed into his elbow. By the time he finished he was out of breath.

“You need to go back to medical,” Q said quietly. He could hear a wet wheeze in Bond’s breathing.

“I’m fine.”

“You have pneumonia,” Q said.

“Just aspirated a little lake water.”

“Well, yes. Liquid in the lungs is the definition of pneumonia and who knows what was in that lake water. They had you on IV antibiotics for a reason.”

Neither spoke for a few minutes. The only sound was Bond’s too-audible breathing: a wheezing rattle that always seemed on the verge of breaking into a cough. Q wasn’t sure what to do, but the fact that Bond hadn’t sent him away was enough to tell him his company was tolerable. It was difficult for him to reconcile the mythic stories he’d heard about 007 with the battered man sitting next to him. It wasn’t the visible injuries that surprised him (and there were plenty of those), but the absolute exhaustion and grief. Q wouldn’t have thought grief was an emotion double 0’s experienced, but he supposed they were human after all—despite their reputations. Lungsful of murky lake water were just the tip of the iceberg. A few hours ago, the man was also being treated for significant hypothermia, cracked ribs, sprained wrist and ankle, more bruises than Q could count, and close to thirty stitches to close all the cuts that seemed to cover him from head to toe.

“Why are you here, Q?” Bond asked.

He looked at the agent and tilted his head. Did the man really expect an ulterior motive? Q’s face softened when he realized that was exactly what Bond suspected.

“You lost someone very important to you,” Q said. “I thought…I thought you might not want to be alone.” A tense silence followed. “I came to see you in medical before I left MI6,” Q continued. “You were either unconscious or asleep. I still don’t know how you managed to drag yourself over here in your condition. I thought it would be days before you opened your eyes.”

“Beginning to regret it,” Bond said, taking another drink.

“Bond?” Q waited until the man looked him in the eye. “I am truly, very sorry for your loss.”

James nodded but doubled over coughing again. Q’s fingers itched to reach over and check to see if the man had a fever, but he didn’t fancy having his arm dislocated. When he raised his head, Bond’s eyes were red-rimmed and watery. Too much alcohol, too much trauma, not enough sleep.

“Would you please let me take you back to medical?” Q asked.

“I don’t need medical.” The words lost some of their punch when he had to pause and rub his chest and take a measured breath to keep from suffering another coughing fit again.

“Then come back to my flat. I think I’ve got most of what you’d need. You’ve got to get some rest.”

“You trust me enough to show me where you live?” Bond asked. He was still trying to figure this young man out. He wasn’t naïve, but letting an assassin into his house wasn’t exactly a smart move even if he was weak enough to pass out in the late M’s hallway.

“Do you know what M told me before I came to meet you at the National Gallery?” Q asked. “She said that if I was ever in trouble— _real_ trouble—that there were two people I could trust: her and 007. And if my life genuinely depended on it, you were my best chance.”

“Even after Silva?” Bond scoffed.

“ _Especially_ after Silva.”

Bond’s eyes shot up—that clearly was not the answer he was expecting.

“I saw how hard you fought for her these last few days. You gave everything you had,” Q said.

“Not everything.”

“I hardly see how giving your life would have changed the outcome. And you came far too close as it is,” he added quietly as James began coughing again. Q had left out the other thing M had told him about 007: a self-destructive streak that could rival anyone else in MI6. That he took failures to heart and could be impossibly hard to pull out of a downward spiral. Slowly, Q raised a hand and pressed the back of his fingers to the agent’s forehead, unsurprised to find the skin hot to the touch. “I think that’s enough drinking for tonight. You’ve got a fever and are nearly asleep sitting up.” Bond hummed in agreement.

Q stood and extended a hand to help James to his feet, surprised when he actually accepted it. Bond winced as he put weight on his bad ankle and, not for the first time, wondered if he should have stayed in medical. The thought passed as quickly at arose however, when he remembered the sterile white walls, the constant beeping of machines, and the knowledge that he was under constant surveillance by staff. The idea of being under a microscope made him cringe; he was too raw, too emotionally volatile in the aftermath of her death. What didn’t make any sense to him was why these same feelings didn’t seem to apply to Q. The moment he saw Q come through the front door of the flat, he felt something loosen in his chest. He expected the Quartermaster to yell at him or, infinitely worse, pity him—an old man sitting in his dead mentor’s house getting drunk on her liquor. Instead, Q just sat with him and talked like it was any other conversation. He didn’t sugarcoat his questions and managed to keep his concern from being heavy-handed. The thought of going to Q’s house and sleeping on his sofa held surprising appeal. Even though he’d only recently met the younger man, Bond would be willing to bet his home was cozy and warm—he had a mental picture of a well-worn sofa and a hand-knit blanket. He glanced up when he felt a hand on his forearm and met a pair of rich brown eyes behind a pair of slightly askew horn-rimmed glasses.

“Are you ready?” Q asked. “Or would you like a moment alone?”

James looked around the flat he knew he’d never see again. By this time tomorrow, an MI6 team will have removed everything, and it will be like she never lived there. His breath caught, and he came dangerously close to crying. The hand on his forearm tightened and Bond took a deep breath and wiped his eyes roughly, like he was angry at them for misbehaving.

“She’d be livid if she saw me like this,” he said with a slight smile.

“I think she’d understand,” Q said. They made their way towards the door, Bond favoring his left side and gritting his teeth against the pain. “I’ve got a standard MI6 med kit at my flat, so I can get you some painkillers and antibiotics. Are you hungry? When did you last eat?”

“You make me sound like a stray dog you found on the side of the road,” Bond said hoarsely.

“Don’t be ridiculous,” Q said. “I’d never bring home a stray dog—I’m much more of a cat person.”

**Author's Note:**

> If you have a scenario or suggestion, feel free to put it in the comments. No promises (writer's block is a thing), but I'll try.


End file.
